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  Medophae brought his sword down on the door, and it exploded. Chunks of wood and swirls of red light blew into the room. A dozen trigger spells attacked him. He felt acid. He felt fire. A thousand daggers stabbed at him. But Bands whispered, moving her fingers in short jerks, countering them as they came, one after the other.

  Medophae burst into the room with the shards of the door. Thanks to Bands, only a fraction of each spell bit into him, and Oedandus flared to heal the damage.

  His hair burned like a guttering torch. Pinpricks of blood dotted his skin, but the wounds healed quickly.

  Roaring flames flew at him from inside the room. He grinned as he threw himself to the floor and rolled.

  Ethiel sat on her throne atop a semi-circular dais against the rear wall of the audience chamber. Her mane of red hair curled down to her shoulders, blending with her red satin gown. Medophae’s lip curled looking at her.

  The Red Weaver’s face was deep in concentration, her eyes closed. A bolt of lightning forked out from her fingers at Bands. Medophae leapt in front of it and struck it with the godsword. The spell burst apart, and lightning flew sideways, cracking the walls.

  A greasy gas formed around Medophae, but Bands’s fingers worked and the gas halted, curled upward and spiraled out a window. Ethiel sent another ball of flame at Medophae, but again, he sliced through it. The fiery tendrils brushed him on either side, and he sprinted toward her.

  He leapt to the top of the dais in one bound. Tarithalius floated next to him, always keen to watch the happenings between humans. He grinned and floated forward to keep pace with Medophae. Ethiel murmured, her fist in front of her, and she never opened her eyes.

  He thrust the godsword through her stomach.

  Despite the atrocities Ethiel had committed, the countless innocents she had slain, compassion welled up within him in that moment. Oedandus liked to kill, but Medophae didn’t. Ethiel had been just a young woman once, long ago. As the daughter of a duke, she’d had many prospects for a happy life. More than most, he supposed. Medophae had often wondered what her life might have been like if she’d never met him. If he hadn’t rescued her from the rough men who’d snatched her. Perhaps, at one point, she had been perfectly sane. Or perhaps the seeds of insanity had always been within her. If so, they hadn’t flowered until that night on the road outside of the Gorros duchy, until his glamour surrounded her, sparking an infatuation that became an obsession.

  Ethiel claimed to have loved Medophae. She sent him letters. She made the long journey to Calsinac to profess her love. She wrote poems. She had even caught him in his throne room at midnight, performed a dance she had choreographed for him. Every time, he turned her away, but that only seemed to encourage her to come up with a new ways to catch his attention, to try to win his heart.

  At last, she studied threadweaving. She got it in her head that if she became the most powerful threadweaver in the land—more powerful than Bands—then she would be “worthy” enough to court Medophae successfully.

  Of course it wasn’t about any of that, but no matter how many times Medophae tried to explain to her, she didn’t listen. Medophae was already in love, and that wouldn’t change, no matter how spectacular Ethiel became.

  And so love curdled into hate, and Ethiel planned and attempted to kill Medophae. Then Bands. Then Medophae. Then both of them. And she slaughtered innocent people to get to them.

  I’m sorry, Medophae thought as the sword punctured Ethiel’s chest. Her eyes and mouth flew open, and she looked down at the crackling blade. Oedandus’s rage tore through every kind of GodSpill weaving, through any defenses she could craft.

  It’s hard to love and not be loved in return, Medophae thought. May you find peace beyond the Godgate.

  A red light flared up behind him, and Bands slammed into him, knocking him to the ground. Medophae skidded across the floor, looking back.

  A huge, crimson circle, a mystical gate of some sort, enveloped Bands and Tarithalius. Tarithalius’s black beard looked like a sponge affixed to his chin. His mouth opened in surprise, and he vanished. Bands’s blond hair shone like a dove’s feather in a bowl of blood as she turned. Her green eyes caught his, for just one second. He saw her surprise. He saw her fear.

  The light flashed. The portal vanished.

  Bands was gone.

  “Huh!” Medophae sat upright and threw his blanket aside. Stavark rose on one elbow, then vanished in a silver flash. In the span of a heartbeat, the young quicksilver stood ready by the doorway, his small, curved sword in hand.

  Medophae shook the dream from his head, trying to pull himself away from that horrible moment.

  “It’s all right,” he said to the quicksilver. “I’m sorry. It was a nightmare, nothing more—” He cut himself off as he scanned the room.

  Mirolah’s blankets were rumpled and empty.

  “Where is Mirolah?” he asked.

  38

  Mirolah

  Mirolah approached the darklings. They purred and hissed quietly in the deserted town square. But they were friends, and she must go to them. Moonlight coursed over their shiny black hides like molten silver. Cords of muscle rippled under their skin as they moved. Red eyes gleamed, and Mirolah found them beautiful, like rubies.

  Another darkling loped into the square, and another. Several more slunk in from other streets, and they all gathered around the fountain, waiting for her like family.

  She reached the fountain and touched the nearest darkling’s head. It was smooth and warm. Her friend hissed, rising on two legs to its full height, towering over her. She was rapt and stared into its eyes. It let out another hiss and opened its mouth. Its long, white teeth were slick and shiny. It picked her up in its claws and brought those teeth to her neck.

  A flash of silver slammed into her friend, shattering the perfect moment. The darkling’s claws cut her arms as it flew backward. Black blood flecked her face, and she fell to the cobblestones.

  The darkling lay in front of her, its throat slashed. Black ichor spurted from its ruined neck and the glowing red eyes slowly went dark. Stavark stood over the dead darkling, gripping his little sword and breathing hard.

  The happy haze was a veil over her thoughts, but the sudden violence ripped the veil away. Mirolah gasped as she realized suddenly where she was, surrounded by darklings who were about to eat her.

  A flurry of thoughts raced through her mind, and time seemed to slow down. She’d been mind controlled! Her mind had been altered by another threadweaver. The red butterflies, the voice in her head. These darklings worked for this threadweaver, and Mirolah had almost gone willingly to her own death. Only Stavark’s quick intervention had saved her.

  Stavark’s silver eyes caught hers, and she realized she could not read his aura. The bright bridge was gone.

  Stavark raised two fingers to his mouth and whistled shrilly. The throng of darklings leapt forward, and Mirolah screamed.

  The quicksilver sheathed his sword and lunged at her. The nearest darkling jumped, right behind Stavark. Its claws extended. Its mouth opened wide.

  Stavark became a silver flash. Mirolah’s scream turned to a gasp as a thousand small hands grabbed her, lifted her into the air and pushed her backward. The darkling crashed to the stones where Mirolah had been. Silver glittered in the air. The darklings hissed as she flew away from them on a cloud of silver hands.

  The silver flashing stopped. She and Stavark crashed to the ground only a dozen buildings away. The young quicksilver fell to his knees, huffing like his lungs were about to burst.

  “Cannot...” He huffed. “You must...threadweave...” He looked at her through drooping eyelids.

  She sat up. The pack of darklings had seen them falter. With a howl of delight, they sprinted from the fountain. She had only seconds.

  She scrambled to her feet, and focused, tried to create the bright bridge.

  It wouldn’t come.

  “I’m trying!” she said.

  “Quickly,” Stavark cr
oaked, trying to rise on shaky legs, leaning on his sword like it was a cane.

  The darklings were almost upon them. She tried to see into the nearest one. The bright bridge began to form, but something obscured it. Something protected the creature.

  “I can’t!” She sobbed. She pulled at the limp quicksilver’s arm, trying to run. “We have to run. Come on!”

  He turned with her, but fell to his knees again. She cried out and hauled him upright. He was dead weight, unconscious now, and she tried to shuffle away with him under her arms. It wasn’t going to be enough. She could hear the scraping claws right behind her—

  Suddenly, the scraping ceased, and she spared a quick glance over her shoulder as she limped forward.

  Medophae stood between her and the darklings. His broad back was bare, and she could see every striation of muscle, lit with his own golden flame. His hair floated around his head on the golden fire. A sword burned in his hands. He seemed huge, towering over the darklings like they were cockroaches.

  “Come on,” he growled at them. “Kill me first. Then nothing will stand in your way.”

  The closest darkling hissed and leapt at Medophae, a black blur limned in silver moonlight. Three others followed.

  “Medophae,” she screamed. She saw visions of Fillen dying on the hard-packed street of Rith. She waited for them to tear his beautiful bronze skin, to wet that shining hair with blood.

  But he dropped to the ground, leaving a trail of golden flame behind. The darkling’s claws raked the air, but Medophae’s sword chopped it in two. The halves of the hissing darkling plopped to the stones on either side of him. Blood splattered the street, and it died.

  The second darkling barreled into Medophae. His hand shot forward like a lance, crushing its throat, and it crumpled, grabbing its neck and thrashing desperately as it choked.

  The third leapt onto Medophae’s chest, claws ripping. It sank its teeth sank into his shoulder, but he only grunted, wrapped his arm around the darkling’s head, and cranked it in a vicious circle, snapping its neck. The creature fell to the stones.

  The fourth and fifth came at him from the sides, but he spun, cutting high and low, and they never touched him. One darkling fell to the ground, missing a head. The other crashed sideways, its leg gone. Medophae lunged forward and skewered it through the back, and it lay still.

  The brutal dance began and ended in an instant. Medophae straightened, taking the same wide-legged stance. He held his arms apart, the sword crackling and popping in his hand. Blood dripped from his shoulder onto the stones. The remaining darklings watched him with hate-filled eyes, but they kept their distance. The blood flowing from Medophae’s shoulder slowed, then stopped. The wound closed.

  “I await you,” he said in a low voice. The remaining six darklings hissed in unison. They shifted back and forth.

  “No?” He growled. “Then I’ll come to you.” With a roar, he leapt into their midst. They scattered, but not before he caught one with his sword and one with his hand. Both died hissing. The other four sprinted up the street and disappeared into the night.

  Medophae turned. There was red and black gore across his face and chest. The burning sword flickered and died away.

  “Are you all right?” he asked, calm as though he hadn’t just killed seven invincible darklings in two seconds. Relief flooded through her. Her knees became watery. He caught her, and she clung to him.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I walked right up to them. They made me come to them. They would have killed me, if Stavark hadn’t—”

  “It’s okay,” he murmured. “You’re safe now.” The darklings’ blood and his were wet on her face and neck, but she didn’t care. She wanted his arms around her. In his arms, she was safe, like she was in the arms of her father. In Tiffienne’s arms...

  Except her father had died at the hands of the Sunriders, and Tiffienne and Lawdon hadn’t been able to stop the magistrate from marching into her house and taking her.

  And she knew that, though Medophae and Stavark had protected her tonight, like Medophae had told her, some day they might not be able to. There might be something out there larger, more powerful, than either of them.

  She squeezed Medophae, wanting to stay a little girl for just a minute longer. Just a day. Just a month.

  She squinched her eyes shut tight. No.

  With shaky resolution, she pushed away from him. Tonight, after all her protestations that she could take care of herself, she had needed rescuing.

  “I failed,” she said. “I told you I’d be ready, and I wasn’t.”

  “Don’t be so hard on yourself—”

  “Well I think I will,” she said. “They’re going to come back.”

  He paused, then said, “Yes.”

  “And shall I run and hide behind you then, too?”

  “That’s why I’m here—”

  “No. When this threadweaver comes again, I’m going to be ready for him,” she said, steel in her eyes.

  Orem burst around the corner of a nearby building. He skidded to a halt in the center of the street. His gaze flicked over the carnage, then he spotted Mirolah. He let out a gasp of relief and leaned his hands on his knees, sucking breath after breath. Finally, when he had gotten his breathing under control, he came to her.

  “Thank the gods,” he huffed. “You made it in time. You saved her.”

  “Stavark saved her,” Medophae said. “I wasn’t fast enough.”

  Orem walked forward, took her shoulders in his hands. He looked her over, searching for injuries.

  “I’m not hurt,” she said. She had met the threadweaver who wanted her dead tonight, and he had turned her mind inside out, made her almost kill herself. She had not been ready. Not even close.

  Orem knelt beside the unconscious Stavark, and she knelt with him. She put a hand on the boy’s forehead. It was warm, and he was breathing. “He picked me up and carried me away in his silver flash. But then he just collapsed.”

  “He picked you up?” Orem said in surprise.

  “Carried me away.”

  He rolled the boy onto his back and listened to his chest. “He will be all right. He passed out from exhaustion.” Orem gingerly gathered Stavark into his arms. “I can’t even imagine the effort it would have taken him to carry you. Before tonight, he could only use his flashpowers in short bursts, no more than a hundred feet. And that’s carrying just himself.” He shook his head in wonder. “Let’s get him back to camp. We need to gather our things away and get away from here. Tonight. As far as we can go. Our time here is finished,” Orem said.

  “Run far. Run fast,” someone said in a smooth, oily voice.

  Medophae spun around, and Mirolah looked past him to the owner of the voice. She stifled her own gasp.

  “You!” Medophae said.

  39

  Mirolah

  Down the street where the darklings had run, a monster strode out of the shadows. He had the same shiny black skin as the darklings, stretched over bulging muscles, but unlike the darklings, this creature walked upright like a man, nearly twice as tall as Medophae and three times as thick. His shoulders were mountains, and his arms were as thick as Medophae’s entire body. A single horn protruded from the darkling giant’s forehead. It curled down and then out in a wave, ending in a wicked point just beyond his flat nose. His eyes, like the darklings, burned like red fire. His ears were sharp and tall like Stavark’s, and fangs protruded from his wide lips. Tight breeches covered his tree trunk legs and a thick belt wrapped his waist, but his shiny black chest was as bare as Medophae’s.

  He flexed huge, steel-covered hands. The gauntlets shone in the moonlight and Mirolah sensed the GodSpill emanating from them. Her head had continued to clear since she’d broken out of whatever spell had been laid on her. The bright bridge formed as she concentrated on the monster.

  He stopped a short distance away from them.

  “Kikirian,” Medophae said.

  “You know him?” Orem asked.<
br />
  “How long has it been, godslayer?” Kikirian said in a smooth voice.

  “Are you behind this?” Medophae growled. Not a single muscle twitched in his broad back, but streaks of golden fire raced over his body.

  Kikirian held his hands wide in a casual gesture. “I am just a messenger.”

  “The last messenger lies broken at on the rocks of the Inland Ocean.”

  “Always bragging,” Kikirian said. “No one expects a darkling to be a match for you.”

  “I’m talking about the bakkaral.”

  Kikirian pursed his thin lips. “I know of no bakkaral. But then, my mistress moves in strange ways.”

  “Who is your mistress?”

  “All in good time.” Kikirian shook a gauntleted hand dismissively. “She wishes to see you, and she will, soon enough.”

  “And you’re to bring me in?” The hate in Medophae’s voice burned. “Just a pup of Dervon the Dead?”

  Kikirian’s lip curled. “Your confidence reeks of rot, little god. You’ll lose that pride when my mistress serves justice upon you.”

  “A pity that Dervon taught you to speak, but not to fight.” Medophae strode forward.

  Kikirian flexed his steel-encased hands, looked down at Medophae. Mirolah couldn’t believe anyone could be so big. Medophae seemed a child next to the darkling giant. “Come for me then, child of Oedandus. We shall continue the battle that was interrupted so long ago.”

  “Medophae, don’t,” she shouted. “His gauntlets glow with GodSpill. I...don’t know what they do.”

  Kikirian turned his burning gaze on her. “So, the little threadweaver speaks at last. My mistress has plans for you, too, pretty girl. She thought to kill you tonight, but now that the godslayer has surfaced, she’s changed her mind. I will be with you shortly.”

  Medophae, who had been about to charge, hesitated. He glanced back at her.